


The Harvest of Blood and Games

by AlanAlexHolc



Category: Miracle Workers (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Holiday, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23024353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlanAlexHolc/pseuds/AlanAlexHolc
Summary: Harvest Day is a disaster. With Chauncley's family slain by his father, he has to come to terms that he will never have a normal holiday with a psychopath for a father. But when Al shows up offering him to join her family for the night, he may just get another chance to make this Harvest Day a fun one, if not a not so bloody one.
Relationships: Chauncley/Alexandra, Prince Chauncley/Alexandra Shitshoveler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	The Harvest of Blood and Games

Blood. Thick, dark blood. It was everywhere. Blood trickling from their agape maws, blood flying through the air in droplets, blood soaking into the velvet curtains. It was all he could see. Blood pooling into puddles on the tiled floor, blood dripping in rivulets from their lips, blood spraying his face, bloody fingers grasping swords, blood glistening black in the firelight.  
Blood blood blood. So much blood.  
After watching his father kill his aunt and uncles, Chauncley felt absolutely nothing. Nothing but a numbing sensation tingling in his fingers and the flecks of his relatives’ blood drying on his clothes. He had trudged out of the dining hall in a sort of daze, eyes glued to his blood-stained shoes as his father’s cries echoed throughout the castle walls. Even in his bedroom, he swore the king’s shouts of victory leached through every brick and stone stacked atop one another and traveled to his ears. His father’s words bounced around the inside of his cranium, mingling with the blood-curdling screams of his family members. Back and forth and forth and back, banging against his head’s innards painfully, threatening to split his skull in two.  
In slow, robotic movements, the prince changed into a new set of clothes, tossing the soiled ones away in a garbage bin. An expensive vest encrusted in gold stitched together with the finest of silks in the land, boots budded with gems mined from the hottest, most exotic of deserts and polished to a gleaming black, all of it thrown away, crumpled at the bottom of a wicker basket, stained in his family’s blood. He would never wear them again.  
After removing his ridiculous wig, he then washed the blood from his face. Even when the speckles of red had been wiped clean, he continued to scrub at the soap vigorously until his cheeks and forehead were an angry blush. The wash bucket, once filled with steaming water purified clean by his servants, was now tinted a pale, translucent pink. No matter how hard he rubbed at his skin, it still felt as if the blood was still there. Seeping into every pore, sinking into his flesh like a tattoo that brought back horrid memories of just minutes before.  
Then sitting at his short stairwell located at the bottom of his bed, lazily scooping up one spoonful of broth after the next, the images of their kills played in his head like a theatrical performance at the famed Globe Theater. His aunt Queen Gamillagor’s eyes bulging out of their sockets as his uncle King Trex’s sword tip impaled her stomach, his other uncle King Morgdon’s limp body thrown onto the table, knocking over silver plates and platters of food now cold and coated in a dead king’s blood and exposed guts. And how his father, King Cragnoor, slit his final sibling’s throat with the side of his blade, no sign of remorse present in his blood-drenched face. His snarl was crooked and wild as if someone with a horrible tremble had carved it into the king’s face, the craftsman terrified by his ruler’s expression as he whittled at the cruel lips and teeth. A dangerous, hungry look in his eyes like that of a savage predator slaying his prey.  
Chauncely couldn’t believe that they were related. How he, a simple man who craved the affection of a caring father, the offspring of a psychopath tyrant who took no shame in killing what remained of his family. All he wanted was a family game night to celebrate Harvest Day, just a few hours of fun to loosen up the tension between his elders. And what did it lead to? A dirty bloodbath with his aunt and uncles corpses riddling the dining hall’s floor, murdered by their power-hungry brother.  
“Hey, buddy!” Lord Vexler greeted a little too cheerfully, yet his uncertainty was left unveiled. Chauncley didn’t see him come in, but at that point, he really didn’t care. “How you doing?”  
Lord Vexler was the closest person he had that he could call a friend, and even that was pushing it. He worked for him and his father day and night, and whenever the two were together it was for official business only. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when Chauncley answered bluntly. “I just wanted one normal holiday with my family. And, instead, I have turned this into the worst Harvest Day ever.”  
“No. I mean,” the lord responded. “technically, the first Harvest Day was worse, in terms of death count.”  
True. The first Harvest Day just three years ago had been quite the massacre. And it was Chauncley’s father who had committed all of those deaths, the one to take out his sword from its sheath and kill all of those innocent people just like he had done to his aunt and uncles.  
“Hey! What do you say we eat those dead people’s desserts?” Lord Vexler suggested.  
Despite the statement sounding a little offensive in terms of empathy, the prince had to give the man credit for trying to cheer him up. Lord Vexler had the choice of whether or not to comfort him, and with how Chauncley’s actions could lead to it wouldn’t be new for the lord to walk away without a single word. It wouldn’t have been the first time, either. But here he was, being what could only be described as “friendly” to the person who practically engaged his family to violence.  
“No. Thank you.” Chauncley said as he stood to his feet. The bowl of broth was forgotten, left to sit alone until some unknown servant picked it up and took it to the kitchen. “I think I just need to get out of the castle for a bit.”  
The prince couldn’t remember leaving the castle, but he was certain he had due to the scent of dirt and ashes being ever so present. Dusk was upon them, the sky dimming to a dull grey streaked with orange and cobalt blue. The squeal of carts, the shuffle of shoes, and the distant conversations of the lower class filled the air in a harmonious song that only a few cared to notice.  
On any other normal day, Prince Chauncley would have taken in the scene with a smile on his face, grateful for his land and people working in harmony. That he was heir to such a simple colony of people who worked hard all day and went home to loving families. But for the moment, he was too stunned to even acknowledge the beauty of the holiday.  
How he wished he could be one of them. How he longed to slave away his strength working at a tedious job and earn a respectable salary and travel back to a cottage where a caring wife waited for him, where he could spend the rest of his life at peace knowing that he was loved by someone else and that life was perfect and meaningful. Sure, he’d miss the pleasures of wealth, having everything handed to him on a silver platter since he could talk, but at least he’d have love and affection, the only things in his life that were lacking. The closest he could get to such a dream was a family game night with his royal relatives, and that ended in a complete, bloody disaster. Harvest Day was supposed to be a time for family and friends to gather and play games and talk (despite how the holiday was formed from a mass genocide), not to murder your own kin out of spite.  
A family walked by him, a woman and a man accompanied by two children. One, a little girl, was perched on her father’s shoulders, clinging to his thinning, mousy brown hair.  
“I love you, daddy.” Said the little girl, her golden locks bouncing against her back.  
“I love you, too, sweetie.” The man replied with a smile. His wife gazed at her husband in a loving manner as he said this. “Happy Harvest Day.” And then they were gone.  
Family is nothing. That’s what his father had said. He had proclaimed it with tendrils of thick blood running down the sides of his face, masking him like a monster in the night finished with its latest kill. His father had said it then, completely mad and full of vigor, and he had said before, especially right in front of him, his own son, no less. Chauncley knew full well that his father took no interest in him, never once wanted him in his sight. He made that clear as day every chance he got, but for him to say that over his brothers’ and sister’s mauled bodies with so much pride, his bloody sword clutched in his hands as if it were a trophy, made it all the more surreal.  
“Oh! Chauncley, hey!” A voice said in front of him. His head shot up to meet that of a woman’s. Long, black hair hung in waves down her back, her sun kissed skin illuminated in the firelight of a nearby torch, her dark eyes a welcoming sight to his sore eyes. It was Alexandra, the daughter of the town shit shoveler. “What are you doing in town?” She asked.  
“Hey, Al.” He returned immediately. “I-I was just going for a little walk. How’s your Harvest Day going?” He asked her, not because he was interested in her day’s events but because it was the polite thing to say. It was the least he could do without giving away that he was mortified out of his wits.  
“It’s… actually starting to be kind of fun. How about you?” She retorted respectively.  
One look at her and Chauncley swore he would crack. The way her pink lips casually curved into a pleasant smile, her dark pools for eyes genuinely alight with kindness, nearly made him melt into a puddle. She was oblivious to what had taken place to the castle just as much as everyone else in the kingdom was. The people of Murkfood wouldn’t even be phased by the news if and when it got out that their king had slain his own family, yet she wasn’t like other people. She was smart and honest, and despite only seeing her a few times on the handful of trips he had taken into town, he was sure that she was one of the very few people who had strong core beliefs, so strong that she wasn’t afraid to stand up to her father’s laws and orders. He wished he could do the same.  
Before he could stop himself, he blurted out just how horrible his holiday had been. “My dad just killed all of my relatives in front of me, so…”  
“Holy shit.” She murmured in shock. “Are you okay?” She asked, true, genuine concern present in her tone.  
“Yes. No, I’m fine.” He replied, not as convincingly as he wanted. “Yeah, don’t worry about me.”  
Only after he said that did he realize the mistake he’d made. He had literally announced the death of his family to a near, almost total stranger who was going about her day, enjoying Harvest Day with her family and he just had to go out of his way and dump all of his stuff onto her. He felt like a fool for saying anything in the first place. He wished he had a wooden clung to slam into the back of his head spot both punish himself and to forget his act.  
“Well, I will let you get back to the festivities.” He said after a moment to ponder this. “Mm. Happy Harvest Day.” He began to walk away, mentally kicking himself for his incompetence.  
Stupid stupid stupid. What were you thinking?! You shouldn’t have said anything. You shouldn’t have said a damn thing but you did and you made an idiot of yourself. Now she’ll never want to talk to you again.  
His heart suddenly lurched at that last part, and his eyebrows knitted together because he couldn’t explain why. He was in the middle of questioning this when Al’s voice reached his ears once again.  
“Wait, uh…” Al called after him. He turned to her, almost expectantly. “do you wanna come over?”  
“R-really?”  
“I mean it’s—it’s pretty low-key. We’re just sitting around, talking, and playing games.”  
Did she just say games?  
“You’re playing games? He asked. He wasn’t quite sure he had heard her right.  
“You in?” She quipped with a smirk, adjusting her grip on the bottle of alcohol in her delicate hands.  
This was it. This was the chance of a lifetime, to waste away his Harvest Day on fun activities and icebreakers instead of the stiff, formal dinners his father forced him to attend and the blood bath he had just witnessed. Was Chauncley getting his wish? Was he finally getting his one, deepest desire? He pinched the pale skin at his wrist just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.  
Nope. Definitely awake.  
“Yes, I’m in.” He nearly exclaimed.  
“Great.” Al turned around and headed for where he believed she lived and he hurried to walk by her side.  
Chauncley was over the moon excited. Despite the previous events that had taken place (both the murders and embarrassment of telling of those deaths), the prince managed to put those thoughts and emotions aside for the rest of the night. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen someone murdered before. His father did have a tendency to kill in front of him.  
“Oh, you have a little blood in your hair,” Al commented.  
Chauncley felt around his scalp at this and found a small patch of matted hair glued to his scalp with a sticky liquid. He left it, refusing to look at his fingers that would definitely have red streaks smeared over his short fingernails. “Oh. Sorry. I thought I got it all off. My dad isn’t what you’d call a gentle murderer.”  
“Ah,” she said. Guess he wasn’t the only one that had grown accustomed to observing the deaths of others. “Yeah, he sucks.” Al commented. “Mm-hmm.” He hummed.  
“But do me a favor—when we get to the house, no talking about politics.”  
Being the son of a power-hungry king meant one, and only one thing: his life was politics. Chauncley couldn’t tell you how many times he had heard that word from the second he was born to that very moment. Everything about him; his actions, his family, his relations; in one way or another, they all lead back to politics. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about it in the sparse time he had away from said subject.  
“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Fine with me.”  
“Cool. Thanks, dude.” Al seemed more than grateful at his statement.  
The two continued forward and were confronted by a flock of feathery birds, their beaks short and pointed downwards with red flesh crowning their brows.  
“What are these ugly ducks?” Chauncley questioned. 

\----------

“Blowing the bugs off your pillow?” Al’s father asked.  
Chauncley shook his head ‘no’ and continued to fervently blow short breaths out of his puckered lips, his hands juggling an invisible object only he could envision.  
“Having a heatstroke at work.” Al’s uncle, Bert, announced. “Reviving a dying friend.”  
“Time!” Al called.  
The prince stopped his acting and straightened up. “I was blowing on a hot goose-egg omelet before your midday feast.”  
The men collectively groaned in aggravation. “So close,” Ed said, playfully slapping his withered hands against his legs.  
“Hard one,” Bert added, shaking his head.  
“You did well, though,” Chauncley commented, feeling proud of himself for winning his first-ever round of charades. That is, winning his first-ever round of charades that didn’t have you threatening to kill your opponents.  
“Alright, well, how much do I owe you for losing?” Asked Ed as he reached for his money pouch strapped to his belt.  
At first, the prince didn’t understand what he meant. Pay him? For losing? It was just a game, right? But then he realized that he had only recently learned of this game, only finding out about it when he had poked and prodded Lord Vexler for any kind of recreational activities the lower classes participated in. Perhaps that’s how the game actually went. When you win, the loser has to pay, and thus pay with money. But, of course, Chauncley was in no need of any money. He was a prince, after all, and a rich one at that.  
“Uh, no, you don’t have to pay me. It’s just a game.” He responded.  
“Alright!” Ed and Bert cheered, more than happy at this news. “Money in the bank!”  
“Wow!” The uncle awed.  
“Okay, my turn, my turn.” Micheal, Al's younger brother, proclaimed as he excitedly rushed to his feet and to the front of the others as the prince hurried back to his seat next to Al. The young man grabbed a hold of the slip of paper mixed with others in a hat and opened it. “Oh, I don’t know how to read. Um, so I’m gonna pretend to be a dog.” He said, not at all fazed by his illiteracy, as he got down on his hands and knees and did what only Chauncley could describe as an impression of a dog. “Rooooo!” He howled, trudging along the wooden floorboards.  
Chauncley laughed at this, and Al did the same beside him. He looked over at Al’s family members, seeing that they too were having just as much fun as he was. All of them smiling genuinely, joking and bursting into fits of giggles every time the boy ruffed and woofed.  
Al’s cottage was a new change of scenery. Compared to the giant, luxurious castle he had spent his entire life in; walking around through the empty halls lined with ancient tapestries expertly sewn by the best of sewers, priceless suits of armor that stood proudly at every corner; it was like putting a ladybug next an eagle. And you know what? That’s what was so great about it. Her home wasn’t large and extravagant, housing a blood hungry being who cared for nothing but himself and his murderous instincts. It was quaint and simple, and that made it all the more welcoming.  
Chauncley had never felt so at peace, so embraced by those around him. Not once did he receive a sneer or a nasty look by anyone the second he stepped through the front door. Not once did anyone shoo him away or escort him out of the room. No. They accepted him. They accepted an heir to the throne without a second thought, greeting him with warm smiles and firm handshakes.  
Now looking at Al, he realized something about the woman that he hadn’t before. She was absolutely beautiful. Dazzling brown eyes glowing with warmth, her cheeks rosy as her grin grew wider, threads of raven black hair cascading over her shoulder ever so gracefully. She was stunning!  
Little did he know that at that very moment, Prince Chauncley, son of King Cragnoor the Heartless, fell for Alexandra Shitshoveler on that very Harvest Day. 

Author’s Note: Soooooo… what did you guys think? I know it’s been awhile since I’ve written anything and I haven’t been very active on here, so I’m hoping to make up for it with some more Miracle Workers stories. This is just the first of the Dark Ages season. There are more to come! Stay tuned!


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